Ghost of Your Imagination
by Novelist N Training
Summary: Sometimes John feels so alone in his empty flat. And other times it's like this. spoilers . One-shot. Some angst and false hope, so I apologize in advance.


**Alright, so this is my first crack at a Sherlock story. It takes place after THE FALL (so spoilers, I guess. I actually haven't seen it yet, but it has been so spoiled to me that I'm pretty sure I know what I'm talking about. But if I don't, feel free to tell me. Enjoy!**

Ghost of Your Imagination

John stared at his flatmate, the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. His palms were pressed together and his face was pensive as he sat in his favorite armchair, far too deep in thought to even try and talk to. John looked at him, absorbing every inch of his flatmate's appearance: his jet black curly hair, his pale skin, his icy blue eyes, his black trench coat and his blue scarf. John could see him fading away, into nothingness, but just before he was completely gone his eyes looked at John as if suddenly registering he was there.

'Well.' John thought to himself. 'This is new.' A small smile began to bloom across his face.

But just before it could finish Sherlock had disappeared.

John sighed; it seemed like the hallucinations were getting worse and worse these days. Slowly he left the main living room and entered the kitchen, hoping to take his mind off of the knife deeply plunged into his heart. The sessions with his therapist (now a weekly thing instead of every other) were supposed to be helping, but instead the visions of his dead flatmate were only popping up more and more often, multiple times each day. Even when they weren't pictures, there were little things. In his dreams he would hear the sound of a squeaky violin, smell the scent of his friend's trench coat before snapping back to reality. Sometimes he wanted to shut his eyes, clamp his hands over his ears and just curl up in a ball.

And other times he wanted to cherish every moment of it.

John put the kettle on and got out two mugs before he remembered that he didn't need the second one anymore. Sighing deeply he put his best friend's back in the cupboard, as if there was a chance that it would be used later. He grabbed a teabag of his favorite brew and placed it in his mug before turning to open the refrigerator for milk. He had gotten used to seeing the severed head in there, part of one of Sherlock's experiments. Even though the experiment was concluded a long time ago it always surprised John when he didn't immediately spot it. Sherlock would probably scoff at how he had fallen into a pattern so easily, maybe throwing in a comment on the size of his brain. John can nearly fathom the words, deep and full of arrogance. He closed his eyes and stood there, letting the cold wash over him before the teapot began to scream bloody murder. Hastily he returned to the boiling water before it could cause any disruptions, as if his dead roommate will make a big deal about the noise at such a late hour in the night, even though his sleep habits weren't considered sane.

John was holding his tea mug after it was done seeping when he saw it. A flash of black, but that's about it. He whirled around wildly. His boiling hot tea sloshed over the cup and onto his hands, but right now he honestly couldn't bring himself to care.

Because standing nearly inches from his face was his dead roommate. John gaped at him and couldn't bring himself to say any words. The man standing in front of him arched an eyebrow and pointed to the tea on the floor. John didn't look away and instead clutched the mug closely to his body, like a small child who doesn't want to let go of their blanket. Sherlock shook his head slowly and came closer. The proximity of the two manipulated John's breath to hitch just a little but he couldn't move from his spot because he was rooted there by an invisible force. He gasped out loud when he felt icy fingers slowly prying his from the mug and placing it on the counter.

_No._ John thought while trying to hold back a sob. _No, this can't be happening. You're dead. I saw the body. You can't do this. _But as if Sherlock heard every word of it he grasps Johns' hands and begins leading him to the bedroom. John's mind couldn't seem to process any of it, but he didn't question any of it because he never knew how long the hallucinations were going to last.

But this one, this one was different from all the others. This time he could FEEL Sherlock's touch, he could look into those clear blue eyes and see them staring at him. This vision wasn't just a memory stuck on replay; instead it was as if Sherlock never left.

He was so angry at Sherlock. It was an anger that boiled through every pore of his body. He was angry at the police, angry at Moriarty, angry at the world. He had been left all alone, just after he had found someone, that SINGULAR PERSON, who had made him whole again.

But more than anything he wanted this Sherlock to stay. So he complied to his hallucination and followed him into the bedroom. When he reached the bed the vision pushed him down to sit on it, as if trying to tell him that he needed sleep. John didn't move from his spot and watched the Sherlock that stood in front of him, looking down on him with his face filled with what looked like guilt. Sherlock's hand found the side of John's face. John leaned into the familiar touch and sighed, his eyes beginning to droop. He could have sworn that he heard a chuckle, the vibration deep and low, coming from the person in front of him, but he didn't want to look up. All he could care about was that Sherlock was there.

And then his eyes snapped open, him remembering that the visions sometimes disappear when he closed his eyes. He sprang up from the bed, so desperate to find the man who had ripped his soul apart, desperate for him to sew it back together again.

But it didn't matter.

He was already gone.

**By the way, the link that inspired this is:**

?qh=§ion=&q=sherlock+ghost#/d4r900x

Brilliantly good work, isn't it? Have a nice day!


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